


strawberries! fruit from the heart

by gazing



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bittersweet, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Food, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I Made Myself Cry, M/M, Post-Canon, Romance, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Aziraphale (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Tooth-Rotting Fluff, soft, soft soft soft soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:48:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28697949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gazing/pseuds/gazing
Summary: Aziraphale does not think they deserve pleasure, but Crowley continues to give it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 54





	strawberries! fruit from the heart

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by this post: https://firstfullmoon.tumblr.com/post/184138495753/christopher-citro-our-beautiful-life-when-its

Aziraphale loves strawberries.

They are sweet. It is the sort of sweetness that sticks to your teeth, and lingers on your tongue afterwards. The fruit is plump, natural as a daisy in spring, and effortlessly fresh. And so, as Aziraphale lays back in bed with their head propped upon a pillow, a strawberry with thick clotted cream between their lips, they are completely delighted. Their cheeks are flushed with a pink pleasure that is commonplace, around Crowley.

But, Aziraphale thinks, strawberries are a _treat._ The angel feels guilty to be sprawling like an emperor, sheets draped over themselves, as Crowley pops strawberries into their mouth. Isn't such pleasure sinful? To be so relaxed, and full, and pleased. Already they feel guilty for having such a lovely cottage, and such a wonderful life. Yet more, and more, Crowley spoils them as if they're deserving of it. Each day is a myriad of pleasure, filled with beautiful things.

Still, still, a low hum of delight slips from Aziraphale's throat.

"You shouldn't spoil me so, dear." Aziraphale smiles, cream and strawberry juice lingering on their tongue, on the side of their lips. Red as kisses, as warm sunrises.

"But look at you, angel." Crowley says. Their amber eyes glint with the rising sun, half smothered by wild strands of hair. They lean on their elbow on top of the sheets, smiling as Aziraphale imagines a mischievous cat would, with a gorgeous silk black dressing gown hanging over their naked frame. "I just can't help myself."

Aziraphale loves to be praised - and Crowley gives out compliments easily, as if instinctual. They are whispered in evenings or spoken in passing while they cook together (yes, they cook, though they don't need to) or said dismissively, with no real intention behind them. With such sweet words comes that pleasant flutter in Aziraphale's stomach, that true and human feeling of _love._ It only intensifies when the demon is caught by surprise, at their own words, and clears their throat, red as a the strawberry between Crowley's fingers.

There is also the doubt. A lingering insecurity that asks, on occasion, _why_? Aziraphale had done nothing to deserve this. On the contrary they felt sinful, wrong - as if they had betrayed God herself to fall into Crowley's arms.

"Open up." Crowley says. The demons presses the tip of a strawberry between Aziraphale's lips, and Aziraphale opens their mouth and lets it inside. When Aziraphale bites into it the fruit explodes on their tongue, rich and sweet.

"Good." Crowley says, watching. "Oh, angel, you-"

Light as a feather, Crowley leans forward and brushes the cream from Aziraphale's lip with their thumb. Aziraphale's heart flutters. The demon is often like this, bold and utterly charming. At a single look from Aziraphale the demon submits to whatever they wish. Yet Aziraphale knows the truth of Crowley. Beneath that warm bravado there is a shyness in Crowley that is so endearing, and so wonderfully human. Aziraphale takes advantage of it, by running their tongue slowly over their lips and maintaining eye contact.

"Ngk." As Crowley swallows their throat trembles, just slightly. Shy as ever, Aziraphale thinks, affectionately. "More strawberries, I think."

Aziraphale's eyes flicker to the empty bowl. Oh, but hasn't the angel had enough? They do not deserve this wonder, this sweet pleasure, that exists with the sunrise. As the sun touches the sky and paints it shades of pink, yellow, Aziraphale begins to frown. It hardens their face, and of course Crowley sees it.

"What?" Crowley's face flickers with a familiar concern. They are always fretting. They are a perpetual worrier, despite their reckless nature. While Aziraphale's pain curls inside, Crowley's tends to spiral outwards, written on the lines of their face. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing, love-"

Crowley does not accept excuses. It is one of their more provocative qualities. While Aziraphale speaks lies honeyed in politeness, it is Crowley who is frank, Crowley who backs them into a corner, Crowley who tends not to give up. Honesty is the core of heaven. Fitting, that it is Crowley who behaves like an angel.

They lift Aziraphale's chin with their thumb.

"Don't give me that." They scowl, "You've had this look on your face all morning. You seem-"

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow in question. Crowley's eyes flicker over their face, their hold on the angel's chin soft but firm. In turns it says _I won't push you_ but _I will not let you go, either._

"Sad." Crowley finishes quietly. Their thumb brushes over Aziraphale's chin, subconsciously. "Why are you sad, angel?"

Aziraphale feels so safe, feels so happy _. That is the problem._

"Tell me." Crowley commands. It is not harsh, but it leaves little room for _no._ That blazing stubbornness, flickering with flames in Crowley's eyes, helps Aziraphale grow. The type of person they are now has been shaped by Crowley's insistence. Without them, they would be more mellow. Willing to concede to suffering, and a lie of a life.

"Oh, I-" Aziraphale stares pointedly at their bedsheets. There are flowers, stitched into the sheets, blooming like a garden in spring around them. The angel has taken up embroidery, recently. "It's just that I-"

Crowley smiles. It's a warm, comforting thing, that is born to say, _it's okay._ How utterly delightful to be loved like this, Aziraphale thinks, but how have they earned it?

"Am I allowed this?" Aziraphale asks, almost in a whisper, vulnerable and wounded by their own insecurities. They do not mean to ruin this peaceful morning, nor do they wish to turn the wonderfully sweet strawberry taste on their tongue bitter, but a fall from their shared grace is inevitable. "My dear, I don't think I deserved to be- to be loved, like this."

All I do is _take,_ Aziraphale thinks. All I do is take, and take, and indulge on what I shouldn't - as gluttonous and hungry for pleasure as the very demons the angel scorns.

Crowley's face changes. They blink, anger flickering over their features. Blazing hot as the sun on Aziraphale's bare skin.

"Have I upset you?" Aziraphale asks, in a small voice.

"No, no, angel." Crowley shakes their head quickly. "You haven't upset me."

Crowley pauses. The demon has never been good with words, Aziraphale thinks, affectionately. And despite their love for books, Aziraphale has never been particularly skilled in communicating either.

"I'm just angry, that you'd think something like that. That you'd feel-" Crowley swallows, as if the words are physically painful as they rise out of their throat. "Undeserving."

Crowley sighs.

"I'd give you anything in the universe. Whatever you asked me for, no matter how impossible it was to find, I would bring it to you, in a heartbeat. You know that, don't you?" Crowley is flushed, as they speak. They are shy, their eyes flickering around the room, ready for flight like a tiny, fluttering bird. But they are reassuring Aziraphale, through their fear. It means everything. It's strawberry sweet. "It doesn't matter if you deserve it or not."

There is a gentle silence, like moments before a storm.

"I want to-" Crowley flushes darker. "I want to show you how much I love you. I want you to love yourself in the same way."

"Oh, Crowley." Tears sting behind Aziraphale's eyes. Crowley rubs the back of their neck, embarrassed.

Aziraphale does not know if that sort of self love is possible - how do you unravel centuries of self hatred and doubt? How bittersweet it is, to delight in something, then feel guilty for the delight. Still, still, as Crowley climbs over them, eyes pretty as a strawberry garden, Aziraphale does not mind it. The pleasure is so sweet, after all. They can delight in it for a moment longer.

Crowley hovers over them on the floral bedsheets, the hem of their dressing gown brushing Aziraphale's bare skin. When they lean down to kiss Aziraphale, hands on cheeks and nose against nose, Aziraphale thinks the demon must taste the remnants of morning sunlight, of strawberries and cream, on the angel's tongue.

"I was angel once, Aziraphale." Crowley says, rising from Aziraphale's lips. Their eyes have softened. Though they are flushed with embarassment they are also determined - and when Crowley is determined, anything can be achieved. The end of the world can... stop, just like that. "I formed galaxies, back then, you know? So I promise you, I know one when I see one."

Ah, Aziraphale's mouth was so stained by strawberry juice, and now that same redness has found itself on Crowley's lips. A delightful scarlet sheen, only slightly visible under the sunrise. Crowley's words sink in, like melting cream.

Crowley lingers staring at the angel's face for a moment, before moving further down the bed, their face by Aziraphale's shins.

"There are stars here," Crowley presses a ticklish kiss to the sole of Aziraphale's feet.

"Here." Crowley presses a kiss to Aziraphale's ankles.

"Here." Crowley presses a kiss to Aziraphale's calfs, knees.

"Here." Higher up the thighs, Crowley's breath hilts. They pause, breathing there for a moment, before rising again.

"Here." Aziraphale's hips, soft and plump under Crowley's lips.

"Here." Crowley spends longer, than they had before, on Aziraphale's tummy. Like they can't quite help themselves. Aziraphale's eyes have fluttered shut.

"Here." Aziraphale's chest.

"Here." Aziraphale's shoulders.

"Here, angel." Crowley lingers on the inside of their neck, a place Aziraphale enjoys. They bury their face there, warm and insistent for just a moment, before rising.

"Here." They breathe, by Aziraphale's ear, and Aziraphale giggles.

"Here." Against the side of Aziraphale's head. Then on their forehead, and then their cheeks, and Aziraphale giggles again, struck by a sudden happiness as Crowley cradles their face with two hands.

"These bodies, they're- temporary. But I've-" Crowley pauses, nuzzling their face against Aziraphale's cheek, "But I've only ever known you in this form. So I love it, dearly."

"But most of all, angel." Crowley removes one of their hands and sets it on Aziraphale's chest. They pat it gently. "In here. That- ridiculous heart of yours."

"Crowley." Aziraphale says, with a crack in their voice. Crowley kisses a tear from the angel's cheek.

"You do not have to earn my love." Crowley says, "You have it freely."

Aziraphale will one day believe that. They think they might be closer, now, a tight knot loosening just slightly. An angel who fears love, a demon who hands it over with both hands - oh, it's rather miraculous. Like strawberries and cream.

"Thank you, my dear." Aziraphale says, through tears.

"Don't thank me. Don't cry." Crowley murmurs. Aziraphale tries to blink them away, yet they only cry more. Silly, they think. "I love you."

"Oh, I love you too." Aziraphale clutches Crowley to their chest, in a tight embrace, at once giving and taking a love that seems so all consuming, so completely wonderful. It hurts, in the sweetest way, a sugary pain, the sourness of a sweet strawberry.

How to stay in an embrace forever, Aziraphale thinks. What guilt comes with that, and what pleasure.

Crowley pushes themselves up with one arm, the other resting on Aziraphale's bare chest.

"More strawberries, I think." Crowley says, with a smile.

Aziraphale does not protest.

**Author's Note:**

> not to get too personal, but today was a rly bad anxiety day. as well as this i had an experience with a 'friend' who turned out to be fatphobic. then i wrote this fluffy lil thing and i felt happy and comforted. sometimes it's hard to accept that u deserve good things. but i promise, u deserve to indulge. that's what this fic is about: accepting pleasure. i love u. pls take the time to delight in something, however small. even just a strawberry :)
> 
> (and if you enjoyed this fic, good news!!!!!!! i entered the good omens bingo!! so many ineffable fics for u soon)


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